The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of
by RanMouri82
Summary: A certain character's dreams reveal dangerous company—and leftovers.


**Author's Note:** This was prompted by a LiveJournal challenge of "Dreams". Since my last fic, "Interpretation", was on the sentimental angst side, this somehow became . . . sentimental crack. Hope it's still crack enough to satisfy!

And in case anyone hasn't noticed, I finally changed my penname from **MichelleTherese**, because RanMouri82 is the name I use everywhere else. Enjoy, and please review!

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_The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of_

Starbursts of white and gray swirled, then gradually cleared to reveal a rotund house in the wealthiest section of Beika to a nondescript figure. The dark figure, who crossed its shadowy arms with a smirk, could not help but remember that the sundrenched house resembled its inhabitant, Dr. Agasa Hiroshi. Even the surrounding bushes reminded it of the professor's tufts of snow white hair.

Strolling to the front door, the shadow figure hesitated only a moment. It knew its presence was unwelcome, and it was not too sure how it had come to the house in the first place, but a little visit never hurt.

For old times' sake.

Straightening itself to its full height, the humanoid shadow knocked on the door . . . or would have. In the instant its fist reached the door, the door flew open, flinging the shadow inside to slam its face on the rug. Shaking its head in surprise, the figure rubbed its shoulder, crouched on its knees, and lifted its head to see a pair of satin ballet slippers—beneath the hem of a lab coat.

To the figure's unbridled shock, the tall, strawberry blonde woman before it flitted around the sitting room, dancing _on pointe_ and doing _pliés_ while she carried a tottering tray of teacups and biscuits on her head. Suddenly deciding to acknowledge the figure, the dancing chemist flashed it an icy glare. "Oh, it's you. You're just in time for tea, but you don't look too well. Maybe you need some medicine."

Miyano Shiho, better known in certain circles as Sherry, snapped her slippered heels together, set the tray on a coffee table, and nodded. _Poof!_ A cloud of smoke enveloped her, but only for a moment, revealing a little girl in a shrunken lab coat; her blue eyes were just as wide as before, sending a chill up the shadow figure's spine with its mock innocence. The girl undid her coat buttons, exposing a blue dress with a little white apron and—_poof!_—a pink plastic table, littered with test tubes and a single bunsen burner.

The figure snorted, knowing that even for the genius before it, an open flame on a kiddy table was a major fire hazard.

The blonde girl smirked as she finished mixing white powder into a beaker of thick, boiling, red liquid. Pouring the mixture into a test tube, then pouring that onto a plate, it spread into a capsule shape and appeared to rise into—a _cookie?_ Peering closer, the figure could see words etching themselves into the cookie: "Eat Me".

The shadow figure blinked. _What the hell?_

"I'm home!" suddenly thundered a familiar, laughing voice, giving the figure a decent heart attack. Blinking as it glanced toward the open door, it saw the professor framed by blinding light; when the sunlight subsided, however, it spied . . . _no, it can't be!_

_Inspector Gadget?_

"Go, go, gadget shoes!" bellowed Agasa, bouncing into the house in the trademark gray trenchcoat as he tore the carpet with each springing step, leaping over the figure as it threw itself on the floor at the last possible moment.

"Professor, don't break the house again," a woman's voice murmured in clipped monotone. Staggering to its feet again, the figure saw a restored Miyano Shiho munching on a crumb of the newly doctored cookie. Squatting on the floor beside the chemist was _another Haibara Ai_, typing away at a miniature laptop, her hair pulled into messy pigtails. Shiho regarded the girl with a sigh and muttered, "We've already made an antidote to APTX 4869. What are you doing now?"

"Brain's tracking Gin and Vodka right now," Ai declared, a blank expression on her little face. "He says that their car's stalled only a few blocks away, since it's been sitting in front of a light for over five minutes. Of course, Brain will only get us killed."

Little emotion registered on the chemist's face as she offered her alter ego a cookie crumb. "You renamed him 'Brain'?"

Ai glanced at Shiho sidelong. "_You're_ the one wearing ballet slippers."

But the grown Miyano did not flinch. "And _you're_ the one dressed like Alice in Wonderland."

The shadowy figure nodded to itself. It was definitely time to go.

But Dr. Agasa, or Inspector Agasa, leapt back into view on his coiled shoes and scooped up the black humanoid. Squirming in Agasa's gloved grip, it screamed full throttle as Agasa thrust it through the open door and into the air.

"Go, go, gadget aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarms!"

As it arced on a pathway through the sky, the figure vaguely recalled Shiho scolding Agasa for "living in a barn". But having sailed above the clouds of Beika, its main concern was the trip _down_.

All of a sudden, as the figure plummeted headfirst through the treetops, a familiar black Porsche swooped into view. Before landing on the now speeding vehicle, it struck the shadow that, despite what Ai said . . . maybe Gin had just ran out of gas? _M-m-m-m-maybe_ . . . BOOM!

In a crumple of twisted metal, the miraculously unhurt figure poked one leg through the roof and struggled to wedge its head from behind the passenger's seat.

"_Aniki?_ Where'd you hear that?"

The shadow raised itself on its butt. _From right behind you, idiot._

"I saw it in a movie, but it's true," Gin chuckled, lighting a fresh cigarette. "In France, they call it a 'Royale with Cheese'."

_Huh?_ The black figure thought. If its eyebrows were visible, it would have cocked one. _Don't tell me they didn't even _notice _me—_

"But why do they do that, _aniki_? They don't like Quarter Pounders in France?" Vodka murmured, his squared sunglasses masking mounting confusion and, in the figure's estimation, not much else.

Gin jerked the wheel so that the car squealed and ran over a curb, barely missing several small children and a storefront ad for the new Kamen Yaiba movie; he then slammed on the brakes, pulled a gun from his coat, and thrust it at Vodka's startled face. "Unless you're the only Japanese who doesn't use the metric system, or you're just _that _stupid, you can't be Vodka. Who sent you, the FBI?"

The burly man in black lifted a hand to his lips and giggled. "No, silly. No one in the FBI's _this_ good at disguises, right?" In a flash, a delicate hand with raspberry nail polish ripped the mask off to unveil . . .

_Kudou Yukiko?_

"Ta daaa! Sorry to pretend you weren't here, dear," Yukiko chirped, reaching into the back seat to give the humanoid a bear hug. "Gin, right?" she continued, laughing and pointing at her companion in the driver's seat. "You're getting really careless, aren't you?"

Gin leveled the gun's silencer at her temple. "Not so careless."

"Oh really?" Yukiko challenged, with a grin. She tore the wig off to reveal—another Gin. But this other Gin kept hugging the shadow figure's neck until it began to choke, then whipped out an identical gun and aimed it at Gin #1.

Gin #1 growled. "Why can't _you_ be Gin #2, and _I_ be just Gin. I was here first, dammit."

"Because—ta daaa!" the man grabbed his hat and long, blond hair—supposedly, of Evil—and revealed a grinning teenage girl with long, chestnut hair of Good. "My name's _really_ Mouri Ran!"

Gin grabbed his forehead in pain, then gritted his teeth as he grabbed Ran by the throat and said, "Little girl, it's not nice to mess around with people like us." Snickering as he looked her up and down, he added, "Nice girls like you can get hurt _very _badly."

That did it. Shadow or not, the figure slipped between Gin and Ran—if she _was_ Ran this time—and wrestled Gin for the gun. The figure was soon pinned for lack of room, with the gun edging closer and closer to that fatal spot between its eyes when—

_Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaa!_

Ran cracked her hand on Gin's skull, the _thunk_ sound giving way to the twittering of birds flying around his head. As he collapsed on the steering wheel, his eyes rolled upward and his hat slid off, taking with it copious amounts of blond hair. All that remained was a shining, bald pate.

The figure gasped for what seemed like the thirtieth time that day. _That was . . . a wig?_

Suddenly, the figure felt itself ripped from the car by two hands, but once it was free, it was—floating. The shadow moaned. _What the hell's going on now? _Once the mysterious hands settled the shadow on firm ground and released it, it finally turned to face its savior. But it was _not_ prepared for the sight of Mouri Ran, serenely smiling and crowned with golden light.

_Uh . . . ._

Ran only smiled brighter as the golden glow spread over her completely. "You should know the truth, that I'm a messenger sent from God—an angel."

_This is starting to look veeeery familiar._

"I'm here to tell you that, no matter what harm you may have done, God loves you," she concluded, her Japanese speech somehow gaining a hint of Irish brogue. The golden light swirled and increased, wrapping itself around the shadow's arms, legs, torso, and head . . . .

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" cried Vermouth, jolting upright, completely entangled in bed sheets and shivering from head to toe. Adjusting a drooping strap of her black negligée, she took several deep breaths and ran a hand through her mangled blonde hair.

Quickly noting that her TV set was still on, she also noticed that reception was poor, only picking up static with hints of other stations crackling through its endless shower of white, black, and grey. What little she could decipher, such as a production of Swan Lake alternating with the closing credits of Pulp Fiction, divulged some method to her subconsciousness' madness. She sighed. _That was, by far, the weirdest dream I've ever had._

In fact, it even beat the time she dreamed of Conan building a prison out of Legos.

Glancing on her night stand, where the digital clock flashed 4:30 a.m., she groaned and shoved aside the neighboring carton of leftover lo mein. Promptly rummaging for her remote and shutting off the television, Vermouth heaved another sigh and flopped under the covers. Certain things, like black and black, mixed seamlessly; others left its impression even in the strangest ways and refused to disappear.

As Vermouth drifted back into a fitful sleep, she decided it was time to be wary of that—for her sanity's sake, if not for her life. _Still,_ she thought, as her lips curved in a mysterious smile, _I _have_ grown fond of Touched By An Angel._


End file.
